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by amireal



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Friends to Lovers, M/M, Relationship(s), Roomates, Unconventional Families, Unconventional Relationship, being an adult is hard, roomates to romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-15
Updated: 2016-05-04
Packaged: 2018-05-14 04:43:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 12,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5729959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amireal/pseuds/amireal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not the square footage that makes a place seem too big, too cold, or too lonely. It's the company.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Birthday to me! I'll be spending the next 24 hours live writing this little ditty. So expect short chapters and frequent updates. Feel free to ask about and engage in plot speculation b/c this is more fun if you egg me on ;)

They’ve been colleagues for nearly 15 years, friends for 11 and people who don’t immediately wake each other up by stepping into the room rounding up on five years. In the spy business, that’s practically more intimate than sex. Phil Coulson can count the number of people who qualify as close friends on one hand.

Needless to say, Phil counts himself honored that Clint would even contemplate breaking his one beer rule with him in the same room. Phil hasn’t even disarmed completely. It’s not an exaggeration to say that he’s a dangerous man without anything in his hands. When dealing with civilians he’s required, by law (not that he follows that law 100% of the time, he likes being unobtrusive) to explain that technically, he’s a deadly weapon all by himself.

So when Clint pops open the third bottle of beer over his second slice of pizza, Phil is both intrigued and a bit worried.

Clint doesn’t like drinking, not really. Or maybe he does, but he doesn’t appreciate the effect it has on him. Phil has never seen him be a messy drunk, he’s not sure Clint would go near any of it if there was even a hint at him being an angry drunk. But there’s a softness that overtakes him any time Clint chooses to go past his self imposed limit. Phil has only been party to that softness once.

Twice now.

He waits, because Clint doesn’t look ready to talk about anything but how good the pizza is and how awful the movie is. Awful movies are their thing. It stops their critiquing if the whole thing is so terrible they can’t even begin to take it seriously. It’s a nice break from work.

Somewhere between when the credits roll and Phil finds the mute button on the remote Clint mumbles from his sunken in position on couch. “Hmm?” Phil asks, keeping his gaze firmly away. Clint is better at talking when no one’s looking.

“I don’t want to go home,” Clint repeats before taking the final swallow of his fourth bottle. He’s had enough bread and cheese and has enough muscle mass that Clint isn’t insanely drunk, just sort of melted into place on Phil’s couch.

“More construction?” Phil asks stretching and then stacking their garbage in an easy to manage pile. A few years ago Clint had knocked on his door around dinner time dark smudges under his eyes making his entire face look both leaner and younger. 

Clint had croaked out a pathetic “Construction season.”

It hadn’t even been a choice, Phil had invited him in and offered up his couch and his comfiest pillow.

Clint had sacked out in under sixty seconds.

Being pretty far into winter, it was an unlikely issue, but Phil never discounted making sure the obvious is covered. He’d learned that the first time someone from IT had asked if his computer was plugged all the way in.

When Clint doesn’t answer, Phil decides that the potential for accidental eye contact during what might be a difficult conversation is a risk he needs to take. Clint’s eyes are closed, but there’s hard lines of stress around and between his eyes, in firm press of lips that leaves white edges where they touch and in the hunch of Clint’s shoulders, which almost touch his ears despite the fact that the rest of clint still looks mostly like a human shaped puddle of limbs and clothing.

“Hey,” Phil says, a hand gripping one of those tense shoulders, squeezing gently before letting go. “You can stay if you want.”

“My apartment feels too big,” Clint’s eyes open, but he focuses up at Phil’s ceiling. “It’s only something like 700 square feet, which is fine, I’ve got a full time job that sometimes dresses up as two full time jobs, I have a mattress that probably cost more than my entire first apartment but it’s like sleeping on a huge pile of feathers and puppies. My living room is has the comfiest sofa I’ve ever had but there’s barely enough room in it for that and the TV. My kitchen makes cooking a full dinner interesting because moving all of that around is bit like solving a food based rubix cube. But I love it.”

Phil makes the I’m listening sound when Clint’s voice cuts short. “But?”

“But,” Clint’s throat clicks and there’s something heavy that filters into his words. “But I close the door and it’s…” his eyes blinks slowly as they focus on Phil. “…big.”

Phil resists the obvious quip about New York and apartment sizes because Clint is unhappy and reaching out and Phil is aware just how difficult that is for Clint, even after all this time. “What do you need?” He finally asks after an endless but only slightly awkward silence.

Clint’s eyes close again and he takes a long breath, some of the tension easing out with the exhale. “I don’t want to go home.”

“Then don’t go home,” Phil says and it’s the easiest problem he’s solved all month.


	2. Chapter 2

It takes three weeks and Phil actually saying, “there’s a laundry machine in the basement,” before Clint actually brings more than a few night’s clothes with him. Phil knows Clint wasn’t doing laundry at his place and then bringing it back to Phil’s but it was easier to imply that than explain there’s some empty drawers that Clint can use. The whole thing still makes Clint look like he’s about to jump out of his skin so Phil works around it.

When Clint starts smiling more, bursting into laughter more easily, shoulders easing down more readily, Phil’s chest gets warm and tight in a really satisfying way. So at three months he takes a long look at his walk in closet and the neatly folded stack of sheets, blankets and pillows under the coffee table, a level of diligence in home maintenance that Phil cannot believe Clint has managed for three solid days, let alone months, he makes a decision.

“We should move,” Phil says over dinner one night. “You deserve actual closet space.” 

Clint’s only tell is a slight pause in chewing. “I don’t own any clothes that need ironing.”

“Your extra arrows keep trying to spear my suit jackets. I’ve already lost 3 buttons.” Phil says gamely. “I was thinking 2 bedrooms and an extra for the spillover?” And by spillover he means a weapons locker, some exercise equipment and maybe a home office. Phil has been more and more interested at leaving the office at the end of the day. Enough so that he’s willing to pay to have the encrypted lines put in. And by pay he means have both Nick and Maria look smugly at him because of how he rejected the notion years earlier. 

The conversation continues in stops and starts over another handful of months, as more and more of Clint’s things migrate into Phil’s 1 bedroom, 1 bath and one big ass closet apartment. Clint is careful about it, his things aren’t haphazardly splayed about the place. They’re integrated thoughtfully with Phil’s things. His boots are mixed in the front closet along side Phil’s hiking shoes and his hoodies are next to Phil’s windbreakers. There’s some new books on his his shelves and new food in his kitchen. There’s pieces of Clint everywhere Phil looks, but they’re all so perfectly placed they’re hard to spot without trying.

But one night, after a long mission and a longer debrief Clint stretches out some aches and says quietly, “I’ve always wanted a tub. A big one, not one of those half shower deals.”

Phil nods and mentally adds ‘a tub big enough for Clint to soak in’ to the list.


	3. Chapter 3

It takes a few more months to eke out everything Clint wants out of a place and some time to narrow down their options until one weekend it’s just Phil, Clint and an overly eager real estate agent who is still salivating over their combined salaries.

They finally wind up at a fairly exclusive Co-Op on the west side. There’s a wide open living room with an amazing view, they’ll have to coat the interiors with the bullet proof spray, but it’d be worth the 2 days it’d take to air out the place because the living room must look amazing at sunset. There’s hidden closets everywhere and that appeals to both of them on multiple levels. The bathroom is big and airy (something rare in most New York apartments) with a huge tub, separate from the huge stall shower. Even better, the tub has the telltale holes that speak of luxurious air jets. Phil can admit that now that he’s seen the thing, he’s also looking forward to a long hot soak.

Phil knows Clint likes it before they even get their alone time with the place. Phil catches him running a careful finger down the outside edge of one of the wood paneled walls, the look in his eye full of some emotion Phil can’t quite name. But he thinks he wants to.

The surprise comes where they aren’t expecting it. The Bank is pretty easy on them, they both have an alarming amount of money saved up so the downpayment pretty much makes the rest of the mortgage pretty easy. The maintenance fees for the building aren’t too bad considering it’s secured and monitored and the maintenance staff is promised to be proactive in their duty. Floors get repainted, buffed, cleaned and all sorts of other things on a regular but rotating schedule. Even the extra fees for the extra parking spot aren’t anything they weren’t prepared for.

Phil had taken the time to carefully explain how sometimes Co-Op boards of high end buildings liked to do personal interviews. Clint had twitched and suggested that maybe Phil should do that on his own but Phil had shaken his head and insisted that Clint take a deep breath and be part of the process. 

That’s how, on the day of their interview, Clint ended up wearing a plain white buttoned shirt, rolled up to his elbows, but carefully tucked into a pair of dark pants and surrounded by a well tailored vest that matched, but was made of material that had a subtle pattern. It was a look that Clint had taken to with a bit of surprise on his face. Phil is sure Clint has been convinced that dressed up automatically equated to discomfort. 

The surprise comes much later, near the end of the interview, SHIELD’s shell corporations have excellent reputations, neither of their jobs nor paychecks were ever even commented on. It was taken as a given that money wasn’t going to be an issue, if there was an issue. The thing is, Phil should have seen it coming. Nearly dying with a guy, it can make your relationship a bit strange from the outside. People who’ve never had to rely wholly and completely on someone else so that you don’t die (and he’s not talking about parental caring, but a more immediate life saving) they don’t interact with people the same way as everyone else.

So it shouldn’t be a surprise that they made it this far and that it shouldn’t be a surprise that it never occurred to them, but here they are anyway.

“So,” the woman in charge, who was an older, brassy, woman whose hair and face looked like it might be fighting the last bastion of freedom before she spent god knew how much money to pretend the last ten years hadn’t happened, “we prefer married couples, but we’ve made exceptions for engagements.”

The floor falls out from under him. Because really, Phil should have seen it coming. Next to him, Clint maintains his cover, and it really shouldn’t be a cover, and only shifts minutely. Then he chuckles, takes Phil’s hand and smiles. “We’ve been putting off actually choosing a date. Our work schedules are kind of crazy.”

The paperwork hasn’t been signed yet, the closing doesn’t even being to get scheduled until the board, the bank, the board’s bank, several lawyers and at least two different appraisers have signed off and specific monetary numbers of been agreed upon. But there’s no point in doing any of that if the board doesn’t like you. So Phil puts on what he sometimes calls a ‘work grin’, squeezes Clint’s hand and nods sheepishly. The rest of the meeting is more of a blur than Phil likes to admit.

When they’re done everyone shakes hands pleasantly and more than one member of the board make attempts at subtlety in hinting that their application is a slam dunk, but that the decision will be in the mail in two weeks. They’re still holding hands as they walk out of the building and down the block. Once the building is far enough behind them, Clint’s hand retracts and he crosses his arms protectively. He doesn’t say anything and Phil sees no reason not to continue with their original plans, which are to slowly begin to explore the closest blocks to the Co-Op. Google says there’s a good variety, but there’s nothing better than a little recon to be sure. 

They don’t say much to each other, but they don’t need to either. A nod from Clint and Phil knows exactly why he likes a particular store.

That’s why being unsure of why Clint reacted the way he did is so worrisome.


	4. Chapter 4

The walk around the neighborhood is pleasant. The transition from fall to winter is happening late this year, so the the trees are colorful and full, giving them a good idea of the sorts of shade they might give at the height of summer.

There’s a local grocery store that looks well stocked and well maintained, a national chain drug store which is nice because of how much they travel, several different types of eateries, a few of which weren’t open for a few more hours and a nice handful of miscellaneous places. They stop in front of the nearest train stop, another reason Phil liked the apartment, and Clint’s entire chest rises and falls with a deep breath.

“Tomorrow?” is all he says and Phil can’t bring himself to say no. There’s plenty of time to talk before any deadlines come close being an issue.

“Sure,” Phil nods and before he can say anything else Clint darts off across the street. He doesn’t come home that night and Phil falls asleep three or four times on the couch before finally giving in and trudging to bed where he falls asleep with his phone clutched in his hand. Clint isn’t there when he wakes up either. Phil breaths deeply and refuses to do more than the usual amount of worrying. He keeps himself to a single check at work, a glance at the clearance lists to see if Clint has used his in the last 24 hours. There’s an entry swipe around the usual time Clint comes in, when he hasn’t gotten a ride from Phil. It’s not much, but it makes him breath easier.

Clint joins him on his walk out of the building that night. It’s late, Phil was dragged into something that pushed through dinner. Between that and his disrupted sleep the night before he’s feeling tired and a little rubbed raw. He’s not sure what to expect and Clint’s silence only makes Phil worry. There’s a niggling fear that Clint is going to ask to move out. That he appreciates all of the accommodations that Phil has offered but he’s better now and that the meeting just reinforced the idea that what’s going on is at least a little strange.

Instead Clint picks up the phone and orders them enough Chinese food to feed them for three days. It’s a habit of Clint’s that Phil kind of likes. Rewarmed noodles reminds him of good times. Most of them with Clint.

“Here’s the thing,” Clint eventually says after he’s handed Phil a beer and sipped his own, “I’ve been married. I know what it’s supposed to be and I know what it can be.”

Phil nods. Clint’s relationship with Bobbi has come close to, at least parts of it, being anonymized and taught as a case study in a number of different SHIELD classes. From what he’s been told, by Clint, when it had been good, it had been really good, but the slide down had become a violent mix of emotions that had been painful for everyone involved.

“And I know that I want you in my life, Phil.” They’ve been sharing an apartment for nearly a year but the first name thing is still relatively new and far between, that Clint is using it now is important. “I know I want you there forever. And I know that if you woke up tomorrow with the flu I’d be happy to warm your soup, take your temperature and listen to you blow your nose while watching crap television.”

Phil nods again, he feels similarly.

“And that wouldn’t change even if we couldn’t afford that fancy apartment with the pretty floors and all of the closets.” Clint says carefully, slowly, and with a terribly thoughtful look all over his face. “Phil,” he breathes, dropping himself onto the couch, “you’re the most important person in my life and you—“ his words cut off with a frustrated grunt.

Phil joins him on the couch. “Clint, what’s wrong?”

Clint shakes his head. “Nothing, not like what you’re thinking.” He fidgets a bit and then shoves his right hand into his pocket. “I like the idea of committing to be there for someone, no matter what. I like what marriage means.”

“Clint,” Phil feels obliged to say, even as he fights the urge to twitch nervously, “you’re always welcome, no extra hoops to jump through or conditions to fulfill.”

“I know,” Clint says and there’s no doubt in his face as he says it. “There are some things I’m not sure I’m ever going to want again. What we have, I want that forever and I don’t need those other things that we don’t have. Sex hasn’t been on my list for a long time. I’m not suggesting abstinence,” he quickly adds, “but when I think about us I know I want all of those things that ring—“ his hand comes out of his pocket finally and its holding a small velvet box, “I want the rest of that, the promises that this ring means, I want that with you.”

“Don’t do this because you’re lonely.”

“I’m not lonely. Not anymore. I could have left after a few days, it was enough to get my head together and start figuring things out but I didn’t want to because of you.”

Phil eyes the box clenched tightly in Clint’s slightly trembling hand and that’s one of the most disconcerting things Phil has ever seen. Clint Barton’s hand should not ever tremble. “We could just try being best friends?” Phil offers, because he doesn’t want Clint to pursue something because he thinks that’s the only way.

Clint smiles, but it’s a sad, knowing smile. “I spent the last 24 hours figuring out that’s not what I want from you.” The box squeaks slightly as Clint opens it, one handed, which shows impressive individual finger strength. The bands are simple with a matte coating. They look silver, but there’s a strength to their look that speaks of a different, tougher material. “People get married for all sorts of reasons,” Clint says quietly, “believe me I know. This doesn’t feel like the wrong reason.”

Phil flashes to Bobby briefly but realizes that Clint is probably thinking more about his parents than anything else. Bobby and Clint had genuinely loved each other, swift isn’t a bad reason, just one to be careful of.

The problem Phil is having is that he really wants to say yes. He likes those same things Clint does. The idea of someone who will be there when they can and be genuinely unhappy if they can’t and having that person having pledged to be there for you and with you no matter what. And he feels like Clint is already almost that kind of person in Phil’s life. Formalizing it seems both logical and the smart thing to do. He’s seen relationships, friendships too, flag and flounder because people were too afraid to say the words. Make the gestures.

But there’s a nagging feeling that he wants the symbol more than the person. They’ve been living together for just about a year and Phil’s still not exactly 100% sure why it works so well.


	5. Chapter 5

The ring is cool at first, cool and heavy and slightly foreign. It’s a thing Phil’s thumb is drawn to like a magnet but eventually, and sooner than Phil expects, the metal takes on his body temperature and the weight on his left hand is forgotten. When his eye catches it his heart beats faster and sometimes, a tiny smile finds its way to Phil’s face.

They’ve agreed to wear them for a trial period. Clint had almost immediately taken out one of the silver circles, taken Phil’s hand with dry, warm fingers and slid it on. It fit perfectly, but Phil didn’t take that in just yet, he was too busy feeling deeply moved and not at all sure why. Clint offers up the box and holds it steady while Phil plucks out the remaining ring with care and returns the gesture. The ring slides onto Clint’s finger with similar ease. Phil’s heart thumps hard in his ears and he can’t take his eyes off Clint’s hand the entire night.

They agree not to wear them at work, that would lead to too many questions that would veer into far too much personal territory. Especially territory that Phil isn’t even sure how to verbalize yet. He finds his old dog tags, a habit SHIELD wanted him to break but that took a long time to feel normal, opens the chain, slips off the identifying information and slides the ring on. That’s where it stays during the work day, warm against the skin of his chest. He finds his hand reaching for the slight bump it makes under his shirt. 

The ring settles on his breastbone directly under the overlap of buttons his tie, which makes it blend into the natural contours of his clothing. No one else notices, not even when he repeatedly reaches up to trace at the smoothly raised circle several times throughout the day. No matter how hard he tries, Phil can’t seem to stop himself from fiddling. Maybe his heart isn’t in it. 

When he slides the thing back on, about a block from the office, he feels relief and maybe a bit of pride, but its all rolled up in a knot of warm feelings stuck in his chest.

He wants to say nothing changes, because the ring is supposed to symbolize that they want what they already have. Except it does change things. The first of which happened seconds after Clint smiles brightly at their rings on their fingers. He envelopes Phil in a hug that could smother a bear if he wasn’t careful. Living like there’s two bedrooms in a one bedroom apartment leaves little room for privacy and personal space unless you specifically try.

They try, but not so much that they’ve never casually brushed against one another, walked out of the bathroom in just a towel or even offered casual affection when needed or wanted. The hug Phil gets after sliding a ring onto Clint’s left ring finger is— different. It’s full of affection and warmth, the kind of things Phil sees on Clint’s face when he laughs at a private joke or when he grabs an extra cup of coffee for Phil in the morning. Or more importantly, in the evening when Phil is looking at a long night of no sleep. 

It’s a hug that changes things. Which is a little strange considering they’re wearing wedding rings and it’s the hug that freaks him out.

And he really likes the ring. He likes how it’s a summary of everything he feels about his life at that moment even if he can’t put it into words. And that includes the nebulous fear that he’s about three and a half decisions from fucking everything up.


	6. Chapter 6

The Co-Op board doesn’t just like them, it loves them. Between the 10 of them they apparently have the ear of every lawyer and banker above the 20th floor and 34th avenue because suddenly buying real estate in New York became easier than crossing the light on a red. Quite frankly the fact that they now have a potential closing date before the end of the month gives Phil just a little bit of a scare.

That kind of thing doesn’t happen, even if you’re a multi billion dollar company or a high ranking federal agent. Frankly, former presidents would have trouble doing it that fast. Phil knows because he did some of the vetting for the Clintons a couple years ago.

“A successful gay couple is fashionable,” is what the real estate agent says when Phil makes sure he heard the dates that he thought he heard.

“I would have thought that wasn’t such a rare occurrence anymore,” Phil says, his thumb tracing at the ring absently. 

There’s the static of shuffling papers down the line. Real estate will probably be one of the very last jobs to give up the actual paper in favor of electronic documents. “Manhattan is expensive and the current trend of my clientele is to get older, successful, married, and then move to the suburbs and have kids. The gay ones especially.”

Phil twitches, but figures it’s not worth the argument, especially with someone who is trying to make money off them, to knock down the stereotypes. Besides, he thinks she might be slightly right. Phil isn’t in a place where he’s ready for kids and Clint isn’t either, though he has at least mentioned perhaps wanting them some day.

Phil is undecided but… but he thinks his feelings on that might depend on who wants them. And that’s a weird surprise he wasn’t expecting.

At the end of two weeks, their agreed upon initial trial period, they’re facing a decision. A decision that Phil thought they’d have more time for. Still, they could simply not take the most immediate appointments, work is an easy excuse, one that might actually be true at least half the time.

Work does in fact get in the way. It’s nothing dramatic or world ending, but it is important. Clint finds him sometime between the briefing and wheels up.

“You’re in the van?” Clint asks. In this case The Van is the general euphemism for the other side of the comms or the local office. Phil is running it from the Ops center in Chicago, so in essence, he’ll be in the field but as safe as you can be.

Phil nods, concentration still half on the tablet in front of him.

Clint steps closer and carefully pulls chain up from around his neck, its hidden by the half collar of his tack suit, unclasps it and slides his ring off and offers it up to Phil. “Can you hold onto this?”

“Of course,” Phil says opening his hand and then closing it tightly after the ring drops. The soft edges of the ring cut into his skin he’s holding onto it so tight.

There’s no last minute saves, no hair raising hijinks, Clint doesn’t so much as fall from a single step. Everything goes as planned, which happens more than it feels like, and at the end of several tense but productive days Clint and Phil shoulder out of the Manhattan offices tired but satisfied. 

He doesn’t remember about the rings until he’s handing half the pile of mail from the box over to Clint so he’ll have a free hand to unlock the door. The super catches them by the elevator and hands over two registered letters the size of thick documents. The lawyers have been working overtime.

They drop the mail on a nearby table, their bags against the couch and their shoes within spitting distance of the rack but neither has the energy to get them much closer than that. Phil loosens his tie, unbuttons his top button and fishes out the chain holding both of their rings.

He slides it onto Clint’s finger and says “You’ve been my next of kin for a couple months now.” He changed the forms when he realized Clint would know how to find anything in his apartment better than anyone else. Nick, Maria, Melinda and Jasper, they’d all be excellent at the job, but Clint would have the edge and at some point Phil’s opinion on who would make the most informed decision about what Phil or might not want done with… anything moved Clint right to the top of the list.

“You’ve been mine,” Clint replies, returning the ring favor with steady fingers, “for 3 or 4 years.”

“Oh.” Phil blinks and then clears his throat. “So. We can take care of the forms after we’ve slept for 20 or 30 hours and the closing should end up sometime next week.”

Clint’s smile lights his face up in ways that are hard to describe, especially since it does funny things to Phil at the same time. It’s not a smile Phil sees a lot, though its been peeking out more and more, but it’s one that he knows he likes. Maybe that’s plenty to start on.


	7. Chapter 7

Phil’s bed is king sized and the most indulgent thing he’s ever bought. That includes most of his clothing collection. He has a feeling he waxed poetic about it after a mission in which he’d been stuck at some odd angle waiting out the all clear and had suffered from a stiff shoulder and neck for most of the mission and that’s what inspired Clint’s own mattress purchase.

He’s installed Clint in that bed a couple times, once for a cold, twice for injuries. A few times when he’s been out of town and Clint wasn’t. Stuff like that. The yawn and stretch Clint does as he walks to the bathroom looks tired and sore and in need of taking care of. It’s the kind of tired you get after a job well done, but it seems silly to send Clint to the couch considering everything. Besides, he eyes the stacks of paperwork, it wouldn’t be for long anyway.

“You should take the left side,” Phil says snagging the extra pillow that lives under the coffee table when not being used.

“Left side?” Clint asks while hopping distractedly attempting to take off his one remaining sock.

“Of the bed.” Phil finishes loosening his tie and shrugging off his jacket. He debates taking a shower, it’ll feel good, but it might wake him up too much.

Clint freezes, one foot bare, one foot with a sock hanging precariously between its toes. “What’s the occasion?” He gestures with his chin and toes somehow conveying that his body is not hurt or injured or brewing any sort of illness. It’s actually an impressive feat of nonverbal communication.

“It’s a big day,” Phil says unable to keep the straight face he’s intending, a smile sneaking out around the edges. “We’ve agreed to share a mortgage.”

“Momentous.” Clint says with the sort of dryness that Phil would usually go for.

“Well,” Phil says, working the buttons of his sleeves open, “I was going to say that we just agreed to spend three quarters of a million dollars but I thought that may—“ he cuts off as Clint trips over nothing, tumbles, pops back up, looks like he’s going to stick the landing but his bare foot slides on the sock he dropped on the first fall, flails and then gives into gravity, gentles the fall and finally starfishes on the area rug with a muted thump.

Phil lets Clint have three or four startled eye blinks before slow clapping in appreciation.

“That,” Clint said, chest still a bit wheezy from the fall, “was uncool.”

“But it proved my point,” Phil says offering him a hand up.

Clint takes it and slowly pops up. “On the other hand, I feel less awkward about the bed thing now.”

Curiously enough, so does Phil.

Something changes again. It’s more subtle than the last time. There’s a narrowing of space between them, a gravitational pull until it feels like there’s no straight lines left, just gentle curves as they orbit each other in their lives. Clint leans over his shoulder more, his chin occasionally resting on the curve of muscle close enough for Phil feel him exhale and some times close enough to feel his heart beat. They still watch bad movies together, but now they share a blanket or a pillow and Clint seems at east resting their legs together in one of his many gymnastic positions he shifts in and out of while watching tv.

Sometimes that is with Clint’s head on the floor in a semi hand stand with his legs crossed in a lotus position yet with his knee still, somehow, resting against Phil’s.

It’s weirdly relaxing. And Phil resists tickling the nearest bare foot to once a week. Too often and Clint will figure out how to land gracefully. 

It goes really well, but Phil has this low buzz of worry that there are actually things that they should actually talk about. Things that needed to be put into words, just so there’s not confusion later. Except that he’s having a strangely superstitious period of his life and he’s got this nagging feeling that this solid foundation of unsaid words and slightly unconventional relationships is really just one stiff wind made of poorly chosen words from toppling down.

While the lawyers, the bankers, the co-op board and the apparent gaggle of other helpful people can have it all together in ten days, neither Clint nor Phil are ready. Work is work, but they also need time to organize and sublet Phil’s apartment. Apparently Clint’s has been unofficially sublet for a while. Natasha likes it and since she’d been given permission to paint and other things, she’s more than happy to keep it.

Phil’s is easy too. SHIELD has an internal electronic bulletin board for this sort of thing. It started from a craigslist style email group and expanded when someone realized incredibly paranoid agents would find the normal way of doing things like selling their kitchen table or subletting their apartment felt too much like endangering operational security.

The lease isn’t really an issue anyway, since it’s under the the name of the same shell corporation that Phil puts on his tax returns but he still wants to make sure that it doesn’t sit empty too long with SHIELD wasting money on the rent until a new agent can move in and take over. 

It takes some time for Clint and Phil’s lawyer to file the paperwork needed to create a situation that means their names aren’t directly searchable on any of the simple civilian databases. In between Phil is stuck for three endless weeks in California cleaning up a someone else’s huge mess. Until finally, they manage a long weekend where they can orchestrate both of their belongings, Phil’s apartment and Clint’s storage area where Nat moved most of his stuff for him.

By the evening, they’re both sweaty and exhausted and hoping that the Chinese place they chose to try is edible and agreeing that after all of that work putting sheets and blankets on one mattress is more than enough for the day. Phil’s just starting to relax into this new and strange place with its new noises and idiosyncrasies when the doorbell rings with their food.

The aroma rising from the bags prompts his stomach to cramp in hunger and it makes Phil smile in hope at the quality. It takes him a moment to shove his wallet into his pocket and he’s distracted because the fire door hinges that cause his new apartment door to shut automatically are just a bit tighter than his old ones and his coordination is still catching up.

So he’s still looking down at his hands, untangling the two sets of plastic handles, Clint ordered enough for three days, when a voice rings out across the hallway.

“Agent?”

Phil’s head snaps up to find California’s mess staring back at him in what is probably a rare moment of pure surprise. He clears his throat. “Mr. Stark, I didn’t know you were on the East Coast this week.”

Stark blinks at him. His mouth hanging just slightly open. Miss Potts comes up behind him. “I told you to wait for me, if you harass Mrs. Ang—“ she comes to a grinding halt, but recovers faster and grabs him by the elbow already veering him down the hall in the other direction. She mouths a sorry and the motions a ‘call you later’ with her hand.

Phil nods.

“Well,” Clint’s voice rumbles quietly from behind him. “There goes the neighborhood.”

Phil’s sharp, staccato burst of laughter echoes down the softly carpeted hallway, it must be the high ceilings, and hits Stark’s ears before he finishes turning the corner at the other end. His eyes narrow and there’s an obvious pause from whatever motormouth jabbering he was peppering Pepper with and Phil winces.

“Is it too late to move?”

“Yep,” Clint tugs at his back belt loop, luring him back inside the apartment. “We’ve ordered take out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not think Tony Stark is a mess nor does Phil. He's mostly referring to Obi and his bullshit and Tony's inability to follow a script (the latter of which is only minorly annoying). His appearance is mostly a symbol of the whole issue. 
> 
> So in summary: I do not think badly of Tony Stark nor does Phil, though I've placed them in a timeline at a nebulous point where they haven't had a lot of time to interact.


	8. Chapter 8

Knowledge is power. It’s an axiom Phil has lived with for most of his life. Knowledge makes things possible. Knowledge makes things happen.

Knowledge makes things real.

They haven’t had a ceremony or singed any papers, okay they’ve signed papers but not these papers, they haven’t told anyone much more than they’re roommates who just moved.

But somehow, Tony Stark and Pepper Potts seeing them out of work clothes and in their private time has cemented the concept that Phil is now a married man. The paperwork is mostly an afterthought.

He’s not sure why it’s such a body blow. Maybe because there was no official lead up? They were roommates right up until they weren’t? And instead of a messy, fluid filled transition it was more of a warm glow of a memory and ghost sensation of a hug that said more than any novel could?

Dinner is more silent than usual, in response Clint’s foot sneaks all the way over to Phil’s side of the table. The arc of his foot settles over the top of Phil’s and causes him to blow out a long breath. “I should probably tell you that I’m freaking out a little.” Phil admits.

“Okay,” Clint nods between dumplings. “Tonight’s your turn.”

And Phil has to laugh because he knows Clint’s been feeling it too, the momentousness of the entire endeavor. He knows because he’s seen and done the things you do when someone you care about is having a bad night.

He loves Clint. That’s the emotion that sticks in his chest and then expands like there’s not enough room in the universe to contain the warmth that surges up in him at unexpected times. And it shouldn’t be a shock. Phil knows love. He’s been a teenager with a hopeless crush and an adult in a hopeless war with a handful of friends who would do anything for you. And Clint has been one of those people, the light in the middle of a lot darkness, for a long time.

The breathlessness is new. It came with the ring. Didn’t it?

“I recognize that face,” Clint says. He offers Phil the chow fun first, because it’s his favorite. “I had that face when the hangover wore off. That’s the ‘holy shit I just made a life altering decision’ face.” His foot, where it still rests on top of Phil’s, makes a patting motion. The kind that one might make with their hands if Clint’s weren’t busy with chopsticks and noodles.

“Well it’s my first marriage.”

And wham, it’s out there between them. Phil should really avoid these conversations when he’s tired.

Clint laughs and pats his foot again. “I’m the one that bought the rings, you’re allowed to say the word.”

Phil’s face must have done something spectacular to get that sort of response, but he laughs because it is pretty damn funny. “It feels like there was no… occasion. We didn’t do this the way it’s usually done.”

“I’ve done the cliche,” Clint says sitting up and putting his food down. “It was fun and if I could go back I wouldn’t change it. I’ll always love Bobby but we just weren’t meant for forever.”

“Who needs normal?” Phil asks, but it’s not really a question. 

“Definitely not us.” Clint’s face is still serious when he reaches out to take Phil’s hand in his. It’s his left hand and Clint spends a brief moment tracing the ring that sits there. “My life has taught me a very important lesson.” He shifts their hands and tangles their fingers together. “Wanting things because they make you happy isn’t inherently bad.”

“Well,” Phil stares at their hands, it doesn’t feel strange, “when you put it that way…”

“Phil,” Clint finally says “you don’t make rash decisions, take it from someone whose entire life is rash decisions. Well, until last year anyway.”

“So you’re saying I’m worried over a decision despite it being a well considered, well reasoned one?” 

Clint smiled. “I’m saying when you said yes I knew I’d made the right choice, because I know your decisions are good ones. And I’ve never regretted following your lead before.” 

Quite frankly, Phil has no idea how to respond to that, which is good because if he had it might have ended with an undignified croak when Clint takes his hand one last time, the left one, and kisses it just over the ring. Instead he blushes hotly and his chest goes a little tight.

“No one’s ever kissed my hand before,” is croaked with as much dignity as he can muster. 

Clint winks, hands over the last two dumplings and moves onto the fried rice. “Good to know.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the break. New med kicked my butt.

Funny thing about new places, there’s a lot of things you have to relearn. Hotel rooms are a given, you assume that they’ve moved the thermostat to default because it saves money so the first thing Phil does after dropping his bags is checking the thermostat. But outside of that particular situation, it doesn’t occur to you. Especially in a new home, you’re used to your home being comfortable for you, so Phil forgot to check. Especially because his old apartment had what most apartment dwellers quaintly referred to as ‘shiver to sauna’ central heating. 

The super is required by law to turn the heat on if the temperature drops below a certain threshold and after a certain calendar date. They’re required by law to do these things. But they are not required to give the apartments individual control of the heat. In fact, that’s an expensive and inefficient option even if you’re building from scratch.

However, on the West Side within spitting distance of Central Park, in an apartment with hardwood floors and wood paneling walls and a tub with jets and a kitchen with marble counters, cost efficiency means something different. Their new place has an individual heating and cooling system, gas based for the heat so their electric bill won’t explode, which they can program however they want with whatever cost saving measures they may or may not want.

What all of that means is that Phil forgot to check the damn thing before he and Clint crawled into bed and collapsed into an exhausted heap. Even Tony Stark’s random appearance and subsequent free floating anxiety couldn’t keep Phil awake for long. 

Waking up is strange. He knows its cold, but there’s soft sheets, a warm blanket, an excellent mattress and a breathing body keeping him comfortable. It takes a long slow meander through various levels of consciousness to realize that Clint is wrapped around him. His knees are tucked carefully behind Phil’s, his arm is slung over Phil’s stomach and curled protectively around him and his body is pressing into Phil’s from shoulder to feet. It’s not awkward or uncomfortable, saving someone from hypothermia kills most of that quickly, not to mention that they’ve been living together for over a year. 

It is, however, intimate. He’s not sure what about it is different from the dozens of other tiny incremental steps closer they’ve taken other than it feels deliberate. Not that there weren’t deliberate motions on both their parts, but this is… shelter. Clint, whether awake or not, had deliberately reached out to help Phil in a time of vulnerability. He had, quite literally, sheltered Phil from the cold. Sure, Clint was probably cold himself, but he’s a half dozen years younger and has a lifetime of practice sleeping in inclement weather and locations. 

A rush of warm air slides down the back of his neck and he can feel Clint slowly stretching before returning to his original position. “S’coooold.”

Phil sneaks a hand out to snag his phone. “Hold on.” He opens one app, taps the heat button and spins the virtual circle a couple of degrees upward. Then he opens another app, by now Clint has inched upward letting a small draft under the covers and wrapped himself closer around Phil so he can get a good view of what he’s doing. The second app is much simpler, he hits the on button and smiles when the confirmation comes in.

“Did you just start the coffee maker?” Clint asks still slightly slurred from sleep but also quiet laughter.

Phil nods while setting his phone aside. “My life has reached its pinnacle,” he says swallowing a yawn and stretching his toes. “It’s all down hill from here.”

“I dunno,” Clint says after a pause, the scent of brewing coffee cutting through the cold apartment air quickly. “I think we probably have a few highlights left.”

Phil rolls onto his back, Clint stays propped up on his side, head resting on his hand. “I’m not sure what can top remote controlled coffee maker.” But he’s smiling as he says it, because looking at Clint makes him realize that he knows there will be highlights. Ones he’ll probably cherish. Ones he already does. His roll has left the hand (and arm) that Clint had wrapped around him loosely sitting on his stomach. Its warmth and weight feels nice and its not just because the outside air temperature is too many degrees below 60. 

Their bathrobes aren’t unpacked so he’s planning on waiting a few extra minutes before submitted to the lure of coffee. He catches sight of Clint’s face, which has a soft smile and a far away look. Phil reaches out for the hand on his stomach and takes it, letting their fingers braid together loosely. “Daydreaming about coffee?”

Clint shakes his head, his smile getting wider. “I own a home.” It’s said with wonder and delight. “It’s mine. Well, ours, but that’s basically the same thing. But Phil… this is mine. I never thought I’d—“ he cuts himself off and a the morning light come through the window they haven’t hung curtains on yet catches on a bit of extra moisture in Clint’s eyes. “I have a home.”

“And a thirty year mortgage.” Phil adds because that one is giving him a bit of heart burn.

Clint laughs. “That too.” He puts his head down, his chin resting on Phil’s breast bone, giggling a little. “And there’s a remote controlled coffee machine. And in a few minutes I’m going to have some of that remote controlled coffee along with my breakfast of rewarmed Chinese food, find the towels and spend some time getting to know my new tub. Which I own. Because I have a home.”

Phil doesn’t even realize he’s doing it until after it’s done. He’s never kissed anyone’s nose before, not even a pet’s. But in that moment, Clint’s nose was a beacon and Phil’s chest is an overflowing pot of water needing someplace to go. Clint just snorts his amusement, wipes the non existent dampness on Phil’s shirt with what could only be described as a vigorous nuzzle and them slides out of bed singing ‘coffee, coffee, coffeeeeee’ his entire way to the kitchen.


	10. Chapter 10

Clint’s singing continues through the morning. Echoing strangely while his faced is buried in his coffee mug. Slurring slightly as he slurps rewarmed noodles and somehow extra clear through the small crack in the bathroom door as his foray into the 80s power ballad is punctuated with soft splashing. Phil finds he has to stop himself from bopping along unconsciously as he putters through his own morning routine.

He’s happy. A simple sort of happy he rarely feels anymore. It takes him a half hour, 4 ballads each repeating two or three times, to unpack a large chunk of the kitchen. There’s a grocery order coming in around 2pm and Phil wants to be able to do more than just store it. Clint hums his way across the apartment to the bedroom where both their bags are living for now just as Phil starts looking for another project.

He’s just decided that while having the wifi up before they’ve unpacked even a single box was a good for day one, getting the tv wired up is important for day two. The weapons lockers were stocked as soon as the security measures had been finalized. Phil has programmed their biometrics into the proper places and they both carry keys of various types the open all sorts of secret compartments throughout the house. So Phil decides to pretend he has a normal life and attack the fun stuff.

The door knock doesn’t throw Clint off his happy buzz and so he continues to move properly labeled boxes into the office and second bedroom. Phil however, is another story. It’s a cold dose of water because unless some planned delivery is exceptionally early, there are very few possibilities of who might be on the other side of the knock.

The small screen at eye level and parallel with the top lock shows only one person. A single, red headed, petite, breath of fresh air. God knows what she did to Stark to keep him still, it probably involved duct tape, but Phil is grateful. He’s tempted to change, but the reality is that going from broken in jeans and a soft t-shirt to a suit, tie and a shower and shave isn’t something achieved in an amount of time that one might take to answer the door. So he self consciously swiped a hand through his hair and tugged his shirt straighter and then opened the door.

“Agent Coulson,” Pepper greets. There’s a smile on her face that seems genuine and despite being dressed up for work she doesn’t make Phil feel slovenly simply by nature of their contrasting clothing.

“Phil.” He corrects and then steps away from the door to offer her entrance. It’s messy and Clint is wandering around somewhere as an undeniable advertisement of things unseen, but at least the singing has stopped. The door knock was loud enough that Clint will probably stay out of site until he knows what’s going on. As much as Phil would like to maintain a firm separation between church and state, so to speak, he would rather not explain about how in this building he isn’t Agent Anything out in the bizarrely echoing hallway.

Pepper Potts doesn’t miss much and Phil is sure that her quick look around told her more than most trainee agents pick up. “Phil,” Pepper smiles. “I feel like I should explain that this is my building, not Mr. Stark’s.”

“Unfortunately, that might not make too much difference after last night.” Phil finishes her line of thought.

“I dunno,” Pepper remarks being more obviously curious about a few of the unwrapped decorative items. “He’s been pretty distracted lately.” She points to a framed, antique, poster from World War II. 

It’s a long ago gift from Phil’s grandfather, it had come along with hours of stories about the man framed inside of it. Now Phil keeps it because it’s intrinsically linked with so much of his past and so much of who he thinks a good person should be.

“Is this the real thing?” She asks, genuine interest lacing her voice.

“Bought by my grandfather just after his plane went down. They met once or twice. I maybe asked to hear the stories every single time I visited.” He’s not ashamed, though he has gotten over the vague embarrassment about having a childhood hero plastered up in technicolor in his living room.

“It’s excellently preserved. It must be worth a mint.” Pepper’s eye is nothing but appreciative but Phil shrugs it off. Yeah its been appraised and insured because he can’t _not_ be thorough about something like that, but the truth is the personal meaning beats that monetary value hands down. She takes a few more seconds to examine it before turning her attention completely back to Phil. “I’ve managed to explain to him that bothering you like a sad and lonely puppy will probably wind up with him waking up someplace memorable. I think he gets it.”

Phil smiles. Somehow, when dealing with Pepper, the whole thing seems a lot easier and a lot less… life altering. They chat for a while. Phil explains that his tax returns have absolutely no mention of his actual job and title and he’d appreciate if she and Mr. Stark kept it that way as well inside this building.

“He’s almost never here,” Pepper says, “I think it’ll be okay.”

It’s comfortable and Clint can read a room well enough that he slips back in to offer Pepper some of their “awesome remote controlled coffee”. She declines, but sees everything. Clint casually inserting himself into Phil’s personal space and the slight spark of both their rings, but as Phil has recently learned she can be the consummate diplomat and know when to say nothing.

She leaves with a casual ‘we should have dinner sometime’ and that is that. A large weight seems to lift off Phil’s shoulders as he closes the door. It feels like he passed some sort of test, except that in reality he knows as far as tests go that was barely more than an open book test whose questions correspond to the chapter subtitles.

Clint goes back to humming and carrying heavy things.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're officially at the point where I'd stop and do some planning, BUT that isn't in the rules here :D So forgive small timeline lapses please.

Time inexorably moves forward. They manage to get the apartment more than 70% of the way to complete before Monday morning comes around. They both know where all of their important things are. Getting ready for work has the most minimal of bumps and bruises and it’s comforting to know that their home really is getting to the point of a reality instead of a theoretical concept.

One day he looks up and finds only a handful of unpacked items, only two or three fully sealed boxes remaining and all of the largest pieces are in place. The second bedroom holds mattress from Clint’s apartment, along with a tall dresser and a new headboard and bed frame along with a half dozen other odds and ends. There’s even a large chunk of his clothing in the closet there as well. 

The only thing is Clint doesn’t sleep there. It’s not an awkward issue, in fact each night when they crawl into bed, sometimes together, sometimes separate, Phil feels a tidal wave of relief and not one whit of remorse. They don’t always wake up tangled together like that first morning, in fact they wake up hanging off of opposite edges as often they do somewhere near the middle. Their lives lend themselves to difficult sleep and comfort in the darkest, quietest hours is still a delicate thing for them. Honestly, just being a warm body Phil can trust does a whole lot when he gasps awake some nights. He hopes Clint feels the same. 

It’d be easy to pretend that’s why Clint hasn’t moved back into what was supposed to be his room but Phil is just slightly more self aware than that. It has ushered in a new wave of slowly loosening personal lines. One quiet Sunday, a precious rare weekend between major projects, where his desk was empty on his way out Friday and there’s nothing to worry about before Monday morning Clint slides onto then couch next to him. 

“Six months,” Clint says and there’s a warm smile to match the sleepy warmth of the entire day. He means six months since they slipped those rings on. Yeah, Phil’s been watching the calendar too. Crossing off each week with just a bit of awed confusion that this thing is working. Clint’s left hand takes Phil’s right and tangles their fingers together. Its something they’ve been doing for a week or two and it’s such a simple thing but it never fails to jump start that warmth in his chest. To be fair, that warmth is never far behind these days.

Their quiet is disrupted by a breaking news chime. Phil marks his place in the book he’s reading with a thumb and Clint turns the volume up a few notches.

“Stark,” Phil sighs, already mentally rearranging his week. They watch the live footage and Clint slowly and quietly dissects the electric whips (and the man attached to them) that are attacking not just Stark but Pepper and his driver. It’s over relatively quick. Phil sends out an email to gather as much footage as possible. There’s something he’s missing and he can’t figure out what it is.

“There’s something wrong,” Clint murmurs, squeezing Phil’s hand, “and I’m not just talking about the guy with the psychedelic whips.”

Phil focuses on the screen again instead of his phone. He’s gotten really good at one fingered texting in the last few weeks. He doesn’t see much of anything beyond the incredible danger to the nearby civilians. Then Stark flinches. It’s not huge, it’s not really in reaction to anything. But there’s something going on that isn’t the normal Stark bombastic and often florescent lip service.

“When Fury sends me out,” Phil murmurs absently pulling Clint’s hand inward for a soft kiss, “you come with me.” Dealing with Stark doesn’t really need a strike team of the kind that Clint usually joins. Most of SHIELD has forgotten that Clint has other skills and usually that’s fine with Clint, Phil knows he prefers to project a more… folksy persona. Phil likes it too, because that means he no longer has to find reasons to get Clint out of working with agents he knows are just going to spark against him and cause nothing but brush fires.

Clint doesn’t argue or ask why Phil wants him along. He understands. And its been a very long time since Clint has felt the need to pretend otherwise with Phil.


	12. Chapter 12

It’s not an emergency call out. Stark has to make it back to the US and while local field offices are sending bandwidth exploding amounts of data to Phil and his office for analysis Phil and Clint and a handful of agents start creating scenarios.

“He’s got a birthday coming up,” Clint says and Phil nods making a note to send someone to watch from afar for explosions. Paparazzi and science based.

Natasha has been sent ahead, her original mission more about observation than anything else. And a discrete body guard for Pepper more than Stark. Tony Stark, as much as Phil might loathe to admit it, can take care of himself. But if Pepper so much as gets a paper cut that isn’t her own fault - a shaky situation will tremble down into a rockslide of chaos.

Natasha’s write up of the incident in France is the first thing they both read. It gives them a leg up on the research for whoever the hell the guy with the electric whips is. Until he disappears from the local prison. Phil pinches the bridge of his nose, sighs, and sees if he can find some combination of available uniforms for his agents that will ground them in case of random electrical charge.

The birthday is as much of a clusterfuck as they both expect. Phil’s guess is from studying Stark’s entire life and being able to read people like a poker player. Clint’s guess is from knowing intimately what it looks like when someone is self destructing from more than just boredom. Clint’s a damn good spy-poker player too, but as he’d told Phil “you got that covered, let me work with my specialty.”

It had taken a lot not to do something incredibly personal and just a tiny bit embarrassing. 

Fury wanders into the surveillance area around the time Stark makes a nest in a huge donut sign. “I heard all of strike team delta had made an appearance.”

Phil keeps his expression mild, Fury likes digging for answers by making leading statements and glaring you into submission. “We thought it was time for a reunion tour.”

“I thought Barton left the sequins behind with the circus.” Fury says. It’s not the veiled insult it might be from another person.

“My ass looks amazing in sequins,” Clint says from across the table, not even looking up. “And more people should know.”

“He’s been getting into public service recently.” Phil says but now has to work hard to maintain his non smile. “Is there something I can help you with, sir?” He asks once there’s a good chance he won’t snicker at the end.

Fury’s pacing stops directly behind Phil and he can feel the stare. “How long do you think before he’s sober enough to only be a single horse’s ass instead of a drunken herd of asses?”

Phil looks up at the footage and lets himself sigh out loud. “I have an idea.”

In the background Phil can hear Jasper. “Fuck, I liked this tie.” In reference to the last time he was around when Phil and an idea. 

Clint snickers next to him and Phil kicks him softly in the shins.

Fury glides into Phil’s eye line and sits down, his glare especially piercing. Phil has to fight a blush that wants to rise up and make him squirm like an intern on his first day. “Can I help you?”

“I don’t know Coulson,” Fury leans in, elbows on the table. “I’m still waiting to hear this idea of yours.”

That one _does_ almost make him squirm. Phil finishes looking up instead of half way between reading and looking Fury in the face. “How about I talk to him.”

“First?” Fury asks.

“Instead.” Phil says and then waits, tense. As much bluster as Fury likes to put out there, he’s spent a long time circling the Starks, especially after Howard Stark’s death. Phil is absolutely sure Fury’s the one that made The Las Vegas Incident disappear on time for the opening of fall semester at for a young Tony Stark at MIT. He cares, even if that just means he tends to growl louder in your general direction.

“What’s so different between your tough love and my tough love?”

Clint mutters. “KP duty.”

Fury points at Clint. “You deserved every single potato that you peeled.”

“Wasn’t claiming I hadn’t.” Clint is now casually cleaning an arrow head. With an arrow head. Phil resists the urge to comment.

“The difference,” Phil says, “is that I’m not sure tough love is the best idea.” He pauses, lets his heart pound a few times at the idea he has and then plows on ahead. “Pepper Potts is my neighbor. We’re friends. Sort of. Let me try.”

Fury is quiet for a long moment before nodding reluctantly. “You mean both of you are her neighbor.”

Well that confirmed that much at least. He read the change of address paperwork. They’d been talking about the pros and cons of being a bit more open at work and the idea of anyone understanding how much close Clint is to being Phil’s achilles heal scares the shit out of him. On the other hand, it means no longer thinking quite so hard about conversations like this.

Clint fills in the empty space. “She knows this bakery…” he pauses dramatically, “that delivers.” He embellishes it with what must be jazz hands, but Phil refuses to contemplate it too hard. 

Fury rolls his eye. Affectionately.

“Cheesecake! On demand!” Clint goes on, eyes wide and sparkling with possibility. “Also there’s this chocolate cake thing, you stick your fork in and it explodes hot chocolate deliciousness.”

Phil sighs and shakes his head. “He puts it on top of ice cream.”

Fury snorts, points a finger and says, “I’m checking your gym times.”

Clint just smiles serenely and then performs a sitting plank while still at the table.

Fury’s snort is slightly more disgusted this time, but mostly in a good way. “Fine. I’ll leave it to you two. But I’ll be watching.” He stands and marches off to a private surveillance booth in the corner.

Clint raises a hand to Phil’s face. “High five!” He waggles his eyebrows dramatically until Phil has to literally bury his face in paperwork to keep from laughing.

“Aw, high five.”

“No.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about that gap there, restarting therapy isn't quite like riding a bike. :D Here's small chunk for those of you who've been following along and feeding me comments. Thank you so much!

He and Clint disarm, as much as they ever do while on duty. Clint leaves his quiver and bow within easy reach if something unlikely happens and attacks them but keeps any number of knives, explosives, garrotes and other items of interest on his person. Phil doesn’t have anything that obviously but he purposefully takes the gun out of his most obvious holster, the one that Stark (he’s an observant son of a bitch) will see if Phil moves just right.

In the closest place to a surveillance dead spot that Phil is ever going to find he stops Clint with a touch. He hesitates long enough that Clint’s eyes go from game for anything to flinty and worried. Phil takes a deep, fortifying breath and undoes his top button so he can fish out the chain sitting just underneath it. Clint blinks a little, confusion weighing down the corner of his lips. Phil isn’t surprised, they’ve been pretty strict about delineating work and personal time. 

Phil often feels like a lot of that is on him, but there are times when Clint’s fierce protection of his personal time comes through. It’s not that either of them resent being called in for emergencies so much as they both want to keep their soft underbellies as well hidden as possible. They’re protective of each other and its a thing that’s as curious as it is precious.

Phil silently slips his ring on and it takes a few seconds to feel normal with an ear wig on and the surveillance point within line of sight. Clint wrestles his own chain out and in front of Phil isn’t the confident man who was practically cleaning sharp blades with his eyes closed. It’s the man who took a walk and came back to explain that he wanted forever, even if forever was a cold, poor, sick house. Even though it was step 15 on a list that they might not even be on.

“It’s okay,” Phil says softly, ghosting across Clint’s fingers.

“I know,” Clint smiles and straightens his shoulders to an approximation of Hawkeye’s on duty stance. “You have an idea.”

That’s a blush he wasn’t expecting. Clint does that to him from time to time, Hawkeye is good at delivering a soft line like that with enough sarcasm to soften the blow. The soft breeze blowing across the parking lot cools him down before Stark’s hungover, white powdered face spots them.

“Agent.” Stark doesn’t shout, but he knows how to make his voice carry. “Go away.”

They figured out Stark is slowing poisoning himself to death fairly quickly, but it took them longer to come up with something that can help. Natasha is great, but even she couldn’t distract Stark enough that he wouldn’t notice a blood draw. So they had to work from garbage with saliva samples and dead skin cells. 

Phil looks up at the man sitting inside a life size donut managing to slump despite being wrapped in a suit of armor and he clears his throat. “My name’s Phil.” That gets Stark’s attention. “And I love donuts.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My mom can do stairs again! Celebratory bit of writing b/c I now have enough time and energy to DO THINGS that don't revolve around knee replacement surgery.

Stark’s eyes zero in on Phil a half second before he tosses a donut in Phil’s general direction. Stark’s aim isn’t half bad, but he still looks impressed when Phil reaches out to pluck the bit of flying fried dough out of the air before the arc drifted too far downward. All while avoiding getting powdered sugar anywhere near his clothes. Clint can’t help but smile at that before making gimme gestures with his hands. Stark’s mouth quirks up a tiny bit as he throws a second powdered ballistic missile.

Clint, because he can’t help it, catches it in his mouth. Bringing his hand up only to catch what falls after his teeth finish biting through the dough.

“Okay.” Stark calls taking another bite of his own donut. “You’ve earned 60 seconds of listening. Make it good.”

Phil freezes, feeling entirely too unsure of himself. It’s strange to do this, to be _this_ here, with these people and with Clint nearby but kitted out. He swallows and makes a decision. “You should call up Colonel Rhodes.” He says, projecting upwards to Stark’s perch on the roof, while trying not to sound like he’s yelling. “Apologize for scaring the shit out of him.”

That gets a reaction, though not one Phil is expecting. Stark jumps casually into the air, using his boots and a single free hand to move his drift downwards away from obstacles but still managing to land within a few feet of Phil and Clint. Clint manages to keep it to a twitch, despite having studied every bit of video they had on Stark’s ‘flight stabilization’ procedures. It makes Phil feel better in a strange sort of way, he’s not the only one out his depth.

“Not Pepper?” Stark asks before taking an overly casual bite of a new donut.

“No,” Phil agrees and then pauses just long enough for Stark to start getting offended. “For Pepper, you should grovel. In person.”

Stark stares at them for a long and tense moment before nodding and turning on his booted, thruster encased heal and walking into the little shop he’d nested on.

Clint snorts and relaxes. “I think that’s as much as an invitation as we’re gonna get.”

Phil lets out a long breath. “I honestly expected something with explosive glitter.”

“That was ONE TIME!” Is yelled from inside the bakery.

Phil makes an ‘after you’ gesture and Clint goes but he shakes his finger. “If this is all so you don’t have to explain anything to our dry cleaner I’m gonna be mad.”

Jon, as they’d both been entreated to call him had… notions about their private lives. He was determined to be welcoming to all, but being told that he’d specially researched glitter stains for them, so they’d feel welcome, had been a Moment Phil wishes he could forget. Still, something about the whole process still left a warm feeling of implied domesticity in Phil’s stomach.


	15. Chapter 15

Clint settles into the booth next to him and Phil needs to take a deliberate breath to relax into the leg pressing into him. It’s the body language of home and it’s hard to fight past his professional instincts but this was his idea so he’s only got himself to blame. 

Phil takes a long look at Stark’s face. There are dark circles hiding under some high quality concealer that looks like it only has a few more hours before it completely wears off. His beard is neatly trimmed, but just barely and at his neckline Phil sees the edges of the black, geometric rash thats been slowly taking over Stark’s body.

Normally, the injector in his pocket would be palmed and used long before they sat down, let alone before Stark knew it was coming. But it’s a brave new world so instead he takes it out, holds it up so that everyone at the table gets a good look and then places it gently in the center of the table. 

Stark blinks at it before striking what has to be a practiced posed. “A gift, for moi? Well I never.”

Clint snorts and leans back, his shoulder pressing into Phil’s. “Yeah, I don’t even read the papers and I know that’s a lie.”

“It’s true,” Stark says, a hint of his own usual sparkle and whit, “I do, whenever I can. Though I prefer my random needles full of drugs to be diamond encrusted. It ensures the quality of the product.”

Phil allows himself to huff out a laugh. He likes Stark, mostly, when Stark isn’t actively working against him. That brain of his is pretty amazing to watch work. “Well, that was the plan but then Clint’s bedazzling budget-” 

Phil is elbowed sharply in the ribs but Clint is smiling as he says, “Did we not just go over how amazing my ass looks when it sparkles?”

“-went over and we needed to make some cuts.” Phil finishes, not missing a beat.

Stark’s eyes might be tired, but they are especially clear as they focus in on Clint and Phil in a way that’s incredibly penetrating. Not many people in SHIELD can match that gaze for sheer computing power and Stark has never turned it on him in this way. There’s a shiver that wants to work its way down Phil’s backbone that he keeps at bay by his fingernails and 20 years of experience.

“I gotta ask,” Stark eventually says, slumping back into his booth, well as much as anyone can while encased like a tin can, “what’s up with” he points at both of them and then waves his finger around, “all of this?”

They both bristle uncomfortably, and with, based on the delighted look that comes over Stark’s face, a mirror like precision that probably looks rehearsed. Phil takes a deep breath, making it as visible as possible before reaching under the table to tug Clint’s hand up and into view, and then carefully slots their fingers into place. “We live together,” Phil said, “we wear rings. We pick up each others dry cleaning.” Clint snickered next to him and Phil could only hope that Clint didn’t start purposefully leaving sparkling ‘stains’ on his pants for Jon to find. “You’re a smart man, I didn’t think it was all that complicated.”

“I am a smart man.” Stark agrees easily. “Which is how I know it’s pretty damn complicated.”

Stark may be bad at interpersonal relationships, but when he wants to, he can certainly read a room. Especially if he wants to. Phil is definitely willing to concede that he’s done more than enough to pique Stark’s prurient interests.

“You’re right,” Phil lets the pleasant smile drop from his face even as Clint squeezes his hand in support. “It’s pretty damn complicated, and us,” he nods at Clint, “sitting here, talking to you about it when some days we have trouble talking about it to each other-.” Phil can feel his face warm a bit, it might not be as much as a full blush, but even talking about this to someone who could only arguably be called a distant colleague he enjoys more when _other_ people are working with him, makes him feel both embarrassed and vulnerable. Vulnerable in a way he’s honestly not used to. Next to him, Clint manages to wiggle in closer to him, their sides plastered together. “All of this is to say… to show you…” Phil trails off. He’s got Stark’s attention, that much is true, but he’s reached the end of his plan. Flying by the seat of your pants sounds fun, until you’re there. “We’re being almost embarrassingly honest so that maybe you’ll listen to us with a little more… attention than you would usually.”

Stark’s stare is alarmingly penetrating. “So what’s in it?” He points to the injector on the table.

Phil lets out a long breath, Stark hasn’t said yes, but there’s something in his voice that makes him sound ready to listen. Really listen. So Phil lays it all out on the table and hopes it makes a damn bit of difference.


End file.
